The five Heralds stood within the silver palace; an opulent room adorned with symbols of immense wealth. Large pearl vases shimmered in the sunlight streaming through the reflective crystal ceiling, and gold-coated furniture filled the space. Even the grand paintings on the walls spoke of a vast fortune, yet none of this moved the Heralds. Clad in red and black robes, four of them formed a semi-circle around their leader, a woman seated in a red-cushioned chair. Her legs were crossed, fingers tapping impatiently on the armrest as her eyes remained closed.
For the Heralds, mortal possessions were inconsequential. If they didn’t serve their advancement, they were as good as trash. But this wasn’t their domain, and they couldn’t afford to insult their hosts. Hosts who had kept them waiting for days. The woman in the chair quickened her finger tapping as one of the larger Heralds behind her leaned down and whispered.
“Perhaps a small display of our strength would expedite things?”
She smiled briefly, raising a hand. “And give them a reason to further their agenda? No.”
The Herald straightened with a nod, falling back in line as they resumed their silent vigil. Two adept-ranked guards stood before the large black doors, hands resting on their weapons, their black armor gleaming under the sunlight. The Talahan clan, rulers of the empire, were as enigmatic as they were ancient. It was said that their first ancestor had been a close ally of the Herald Regent himself, though like all legends, it was best taken with a grain of salt.
Another Herald, restless, began to step forward. “Hadas!” the larger Herald barked sternly.
Their leader sighed, raising her hand again to calm the others. Her Heralds were like hounds, always ready to strike at the slightest provocation. Hadas, the advancing Herald, drew a long silver blade, the adepts before the doors reacting instantly as their auras flared. But before things could escalate further, the massive doors creaked open, a wave of pressure freezing the adept in place. The guards dropped to their knees as a man with dark hair stepped through calmly.
His eyes flashed to the Herald, and for a moment, it looked like he was considering erasing him from existence. Dressed in a silver and black robe, he surveyed the room before his cold voice filled the air.
"What is the meaning of this?"
The power of his aura was undeniable. Lord-ranked, with the legendary Blitzfire Tempest swirling within him, a force that had reduced entire legions to ash. The seated Herald, Aerin, was on her feet instantly, walking towards him with a wave of her hand, releasing her adept from the Lord's grip. It took considerable effort; even as a fellow Lord, it wasn’t easy.
“My apologies, Lord Varis,” she said, her smile thin. “My Heralds are... not fond of perceived insults.”
"The clan has larger concerns than an errant Herald," Varis replied, his voice icy.
“Lord Varis, as a member of the Talahan clan, surely you understand the threat the revenants pose, not only to this continent but to your clan's holdings.”
Varis raised a finger. “One revenant. We've already expelled their cult from Silvershade, and they now reside in Seaborn territory. What you face here is merely an anomaly, Lady Aerin. A single blight. Perhaps on the Heralds' reputation, if I may say so.”
Aerin, a seasoned manipulator, didn’t take the bait. She smiled serenely and nodded, allowing his words to wash over her.
“One stain, Lord Varis, left unchecked, can grow into a festering tumor. Need I remind you of the wasteland king?” she said pointedly.
A tick in Varis' jaw betrayed that her words had struck a nerve. Aerin had crossed paths with one of the wasteland lords before, those who practiced unorthodox and dangerous cultivation methods. It had delayed her journey to the capital, a trip she was now regretting more and more. While storming through lesser noble clans might have been a tempting display of force, doing so would bring the full wrath of the Talahan clan upon the Heralds—a price no one could afford, especially with the Surge so close at hand.
Varis remained impassive. “The so-called king of the wasteland is nothing more than a buffer. He serves a purpose—protecting our shores from Silvershade.”
Aerin responded with a non-committal hum before continuing. “The Surge is weeks away, Lord Varis. With your permission, we could spread out and find the revenant now before it escalates.”
“No,” Varis said, cutting her off. “We agreed the enclaves were your jurisdiction, Lady Aerin, per agreements made long before either of us were born. We will deal with the revenants—after the Surge.”
Aerin's smile widened slightly. She had been waiting for this moment. “And what if the revenants were already in your territory?” she asked, her voice laced with feigned innocence.
Aerin felt her adepts tense, anticipating the onslaught of aura that would surely follow Lord Varis’ words. The room itself seemed to hold its breath, the air charged with unspoken power, but all that came was a sharp gust, flapping the edges of her robes. Varis' voice, as cold and sharp as tempered steel, cut through the tension.
"What are you implying?" he asked, his tone laced with danger.
Aerin’s grin widened. She had him now.
"You want us to stay our blades until after the Surge? Fine," she said, savoring the moment. "But be aware, the Order of the Regents still stands. The Technocracy's projects will proceed, and should anything interfere with them—anything, anyone, or any group—the blame will fall squarely on the shoulders of the clan."
Her words hung in the air like a blade ready to drop. Varis opened his mouth to retort, his aura flaring, but then it happened.
A presence. Overwhelming, suffocating, ancient.
Aerin barely had time to process it before she felt herself being pressed to the ground by the sheer force of its existence. It was as though the air itself had turned solid, crashing down on her shoulders. Both she and Varis fell to their knees, their earlier power plays forgotten. The adepts, both hers and the Talahan guards, had already prostrated themselves, faces pressed to the floor in reverence or perhaps fear.
Aerin gritted her teeth, her entire body trembling as she fought to maintain her composure. She had never felt anything like this before. It wasn’t just power—it was myth made manifest. This was no ordinary lord or even a paragon. The presence was beyond comprehension, a force that could erase them all from existence with a mere thought.
And then, just as quickly as it came, it vanished.
Gone, as if it had never been.
Aerin scrambled to her feet, her legs unsteady beneath her. She had barely maintained control, but she forced herself to stand tall, eyes narrowing as she took in Varis, who now looked grave and composed.
"I apologize for my earlier demeanor," Varis said, his voice softer now, almost humbled. Aerin raised an eyebrow in surprise.
The adepts were still rising slowly, looking pale and shaken from the experience. Aerin couldn’t blame them; they had just been in the presence of a paragon—no, not just any paragon. It was him. The true Blitzfire Tempest. The patriarch of the Talahan clan, a being said to be on the cusp of advancing to Regent, a title whispered with awe and fear across the continent.
"The great patriarch has spoken," Varis continued, his voice carrying an air of finality. "From this point forward, the words I speak are the direct will of the patriarch himself. Listen carefully."
Aerin felt a chill run through her. This was bigger than she had anticipated. To have drawn the attention of the patriarch was no small feat. But for a mere revenant? It didn’t make sense. Something else was at play here, something she hadn’t yet grasped.
"I see your concern, and I understand it," Varis said, his expression softening just slightly. "The patriarch and the regent share your worry, Lady Aerin."
Aerin froze. The regent? The emperor of the Talahan Empire himself had been made aware of this? And they were in communication with the Heralds’ upper echelons?
She began to wonder what game she was truly a part of.
"The revenant’s whereabouts are known to us," Varis continued, his voice steady. "But the Surge takes precedence. The patriarch has given us new orders, and another task for you, Lady Aerin."
He paused for a moment, letting the gravity of his words settle over her like a shroud.
"Your mission," Varis said, "will involve much more than just a single revenant."
And so, Lord Varis gave Lady Aerin of the Heralds her new orders.
*********************
Tunde found himself pushing toward the mountain with the beacon, his entire strength pitted against the raw force that hammered him. First walking, then crawling bit by bit, he pressed forward, the sounds of explosions behind him fading into the background. His Ethra sight burned so brightly that he had to switch it off to avoid overwhelming himself. His relic, after absorbing the strange energy that now coursed through his veins, had finally gone back to its resting state, leaving him with a supercharged body but little comfort as the climb continued.
Flying creatures screeched overhead, their wings slicing through the thick air as more of them were swatted down from the mountain’s zenith. Tunde's heart raced, and his muscles burned with exertion. A razor-beaked creature—faceless, with a jagged silver beak and taloned legs—swooped toward him. With a burst of adrenaline, he grabbed a foothold and launched himself upwards, narrowly avoiding the creature’s attack. A stone imbued with resonance sailed from his hand, but the ambient power threw off his aim. The bird screeched as it lost a wing and crashed into another, sending both plummeting in a storm of feathers.
Tunde gritted his teeth and kept climbing. The absence of rankers made it clear that no one wanted to risk their hard-earned resources against Thalas, the second-ranked disciple of the entire clan. The closer Tunde got to the summit, the more doubt gnawed at him. He crushed it. He had to see this through. He needed to know what kind of foe Thalas truly was.
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Reaching the ledge of the mountaintop, Tunde pulled himself up, gasping for air, his body slick with sweat. Ethra sight activated despite the sting in his eyes, and resonance coursed through him, ready to be unleashed.
At the summit stood one figure, surrounded by the strewn bodies of rift creatures. Some were torn apart, others burned or shredded into pieces of gore and bone. The lone figure was in the process of removing a large crystal from its pedestal.
Thalas Verdan.
His broad form turned to Tunde, his smooth head catching the fading light. He eyed Tunde for a moment before speaking.
"Whoever you are, you’ve got guts coming up here alone," Thalas said, his voice steady.
Tunde remained silent; his fists clenched. He could feel the pulse of Ethra surging within him, strengthened by the strange energy that now bolstered his body. Thalas slipped the crystal into his void ring, and as the light vanished, the mountain began to tremble.
"Nothing here for you," Thalas added, his tone dismissive.
Tunde’s voice was soft but firm. “I’m Tunde.”
Thalas paused, his eyes narrowing in recognition. "The wastelander? Elder Joran's student?" he asked, disbelief coloring his words.
Tunde's body tensed as he dropped into a fighting stance. Ethra roared through his veins, pushing him forward.
Thalas sighed, shaking his head. "Your time to face me will come. I don’t relish what I’ll have to do to you, but until then, I suggest—"
Before Thalas could finish, Tunde was upon him, his fist laced with resonance aimed at Thalas' chest. The disciple barely managed to deflect the blow, his gauntlet absorbing the impact. Tunde’s instincts screamed as a flaming cudgel materialized in Thalas' hand, crashing into his shoulder. Agonizing pain erupted from the blow as Tunde was sent tumbling through the air, his left side numb from the force.
Thalas was on him again before Tunde could recover, his gauntlet crashing into Tunde’s ribs, slamming him into the rocky ground. Tunde’s vision swam as he struggled to breathe. The pain was unbearable, but through the haze, he noticed the frown on Thalas’ face as he stared at his gauntlet—cracks had formed along the surface.
Tunde staggered to his feet, the relic on his wrist pumping energy through his body, forcing his wounds to knit themselves together. Thalas raised his flaming cudgel and pointed it at him.
"Stay down," Thalas commanded.
Tunde chuckled, charging once more at the ranker, launching stones imbued with resonance. Thalas growled, deflecting each projectile with his cudgel. With a roar, the disciple swung the weapon again, and against his better instincts, Tunde met it with a punch filled with resonance. His entire hand shattered upon impact, sending waves of agony through him. The next blow crushed his other arm, causing him to scream in pain.
“You should know better than to challenge your betters,” Thalas said coldly. His foot pressed down on Tunde's chest, pinning him to the ground. "Normally, the clan needs disciples for the Surge, but not wastelanders who don’t know their place."
Thalas looked down at Tunde with disdain, his voice dripping with indifference. "I could kill you. I should kill you. But it would be unfair. You were never a threat to me—not now, not when the duel comes, and not even as a disciple."
Tunde's vision blurred as rage boiled inside him. He tried to move, tried to fight, but his body was broken, useless beneath the weight of Thalas’ foot.
"And yet," Thalas mused, raising his cudgel again, "something tells me you’ll be more trouble in the future."
Tunde braced for the killing blow, but instead, Thalas sighed and let the weapon vanish into his void ring. He stepped off Tunde's chest.
“If you manage to crawl out of this rift before it closes and your spirit isn’t broken, then come and challenge me. I’ll be waiting.”
With those final words, Thalas turned and walked away, leaving Tunde lying broken on the ground. As the skies darkened and the rift began to close, Tunde could only stare after him, the sound of Thalas' footsteps fading into the distance.
**********************************
Thalas tore through the landscape, making his way back to the rift entrance after brute-forcing his way past Rhyn and his entourage. The first, third, and fifth rankers had finished battling the guardian of the rift crystal, and Thalas now had the spoils—a moderate fortune in resources from the mountain. Enough, he figured, to placate his family and even Elder Moros despite his oversight in not killing the wastelander. Still, his thoughts were troubled as he dodged an Ethra projection, a blow from his gauntlet shattering a sky vessel. The disciple piloting it cursed as they jumped to safety.
His mind returned to the shattered cudgel resting in his void ring. A disciple-rank weapon, broken by an early-ranked disciple—Tunde. The idea was ludicrous, but the crack in his gauntlet hadn’t lied. As Thalas continued down the mountain, he thought again about Tunde. It would be easier if the wastelander died in the rift, but disciples like him were rare. They were survivors. Thalas, of all people, should know.
Reaching the rift’s exit, he stepped through, the Ethra of reality flowing into him like cool water after the oppressive power of the rift. Rifts were strange places, devoid of natural Ethra, and whatever powered them was dangerous and foreign. Now that he was back, the environment around the rift would grow stronger from the energy leaking into the real world.
Tents spread out in the clearing, the banners of the various disciple houses flapping in the breeze. Defensive constructs, each brimming with peak tier 2 runes, stood like sentinels, ready to incinerate any tier 2 creatures that dared approach. Adepts roamed the camp, ensuring that any tier 3 threats would meet swift death. Thalas felt their eyes on him as he entered the camp, but he remained focused.
Two disciples of Tempest Keep appeared beside him—one male and one female, both outer disciples of his house. The girl was ranked 19th, and her brother 23rd in the clan’s official rankings. Thalas didn’t hold rank over them lightly, but he still respected their power.
“Well?” the male asked, his lightning-infused blue eyes glowing.
Without a word, Thalas produced the rift crystal. The pulse of power radiating from the object drew stares from everyone in the vicinity. In an instant, Elder Moros appeared before him, a smile creeping across his face.
Thalas bowed deeply and presented the crystal. Elder Moros grinned as he took it, the power within already starting to transform into Ethra before he placed it into his void ring.
“Your advancement to adept rank is all but assured,” Moros said.
Thalas kept his expression neutral, though the thought of advancing still churned inside him. His advancement had been a point of contention between him, his father, and Moros for a long time. The power of the crystal would allow him to gain a second affinity, one just as strong as his primary one. But the political implications of having two adepts in his branch of the family had always been delicate.
Moros’ eyes shifted to Thalas’ hands and the fractured gauntlet. “Rift crystal guardian?” he asked.
Thalas considered his answer, about to reply, when a sudden presence filled the air. The tension was palpable. Elder Moros recoiled in anger, while Thalas’ heart froze.
“What are you doing here, Joran?” Moros hissed, his voice low and dangerous.
The great elder ignored him, beaming at Thalas. “Congratulations! I can’t wait for you to join the ranks of the adepts,” Joran said with an almost fatherly warmth.
Thalas stiffened but bowed again, “The elder’s words bring me great joy.”
Joran’s expression remained kind but calculating. “I trust my disciple gave you quite the battle?” His voice was light, but the implication was anything but.
Elder Moros bristled, stepping between them. Thalas’ heart raced, thoughts spinning. How did Joran know? Had Tunde left some mark on him?
“What are you implying, Joran?” Moros growled.
Joran laughed softly. “Do you think I’m so petty as to squabble with a disciple?” He turned his gaze back to Thalas. “He fought well, didn’t he?”
Thalas forced himself to breathe steadily, cycling his Ethra to calm his nerves. “We parted on amicable terms,” he said.
Joran chuckled again, his tone almost mocking. “I doubt that. That boy would rather die than surrender. You didn’t kill him, did you?”
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Thalas shook his head mutely.
“What is the meaning of this, Elder Joran?” A deep voice broke the tension, and Thalas turned, relief flooding him. His father, Jashed Verdan, stood there, flanked by his siblings and two peak outer disciples.
Jashed’s deep green gauntlets gleamed, his presence a calming force even as embarrassment gnawed at Thalas. His father’s arrival was a reprieve, but also a reminder of his own inadequacies.
As the rift pulsed behind them, more disciples emerged, their houses rushing to assist. Rhyn, Sorin, and Elyria made their way toward the argent rose banner. Lady Celia, one of the three great elders, watched the proceedings with a calmness that struck Thalas as either indifference or something more hidden.
Jashed’s voice cut through the murmurs. “My son knows better than to waste his time killing a weak sheep. Your disciple would not have been worth the effort.”
Joran smiled, his blindfolded face turning slightly. “I never accused him. But breaking the terms of the duel would have been a disappointment, considering all the effort I’ve put in.”
The tension was palpable as Elder Celia and her disciples joined the group, Rhyn’s hand resting casually on his adept-ranked blade. Thalas’ gaze locked with his, both sizing each other up in silence. But it was Elyria, with her silver metallic eyes, who made Thalas’ skin crawl. There was something deeply unsettling about her presence.
She turned toward the rift, preparing to move when Joran spoke again.
“No, Elyria. Let him come out on his own. If he’s to survive, he’ll have to find his own way.”
The collective shock was tangible, and even Jashed frowned.
“Are you sure about that? If the rift collapses, we won’t be held responsible for his death,” Jashed said firmly.
Joran waved him off with a smile. “I never said you were. If he dies in there, then your son and his branch will be free to claim their lordships and adept titles, won't they?”
The smile Joran gave was far too knowing, and Thalas, for the first time, felt truly uncertain of what lay ahead.
***********************
Tunde was in pain. It coursed through his veins, consuming his body as it healed itself as quickly as it could. The rift behind him was tearing apart, collapsing into the void, and he was running out of time. Every step forward was agony, every breath ragged, but he kept pushing, his Ethra depleted, his legs burning with the strain. Blood dripped from his wounds, and the foreign energy that had once fueled him was dangerously low, leaving him teetering on the brink of collapse.
The entrance of the rift was so close, just within reach, but as his vision blurred, he crashed into the ground, his strength giving out. His body, broken and bleeding, lay inches from freedom, the rift's entrance just ahead.
"No..." the word echoed in his mind, a plea against the darkness closing in. "Not like this."
Summoning every last shred of willpower, Tunde pushed himself forward with his shattered arms, the pain searing through him. He screamed, but he didn’t stop. Inch by inch, he clawed his way towards the rift, the collapsing reality behind him a reminder of how little time he had left. His world narrowed to one final push, and with a guttural roar of defiance, he threw himself forward, collapsing through the rift’s entrance just as the darkness swallowed everything behind him.
********************
Elyria's calm exterior belied the growing storm inside her. Her eyes, sharp and unyielding, flicked between the shrinking rift and Thalas, who stood smugly, seemingly unconcerned. The elders' voices were a cacophony, arguing amongst themselves and with Elder Joran, who remained infuriatingly composed, his blindfolded gaze fixed on the rift.
Rhyn leaned close to Elder Celia, whispering something that made her glance quickly at Joran before shaking her head. Rhyn nodded and resumed his vigilant stance, his hand never far from his blade.
“Don’t be petty, Joran,” Elder Moros snapped. “The rift will close any moment now.”
Joran said nothing, his serene smile and unwavering attention fixed on the rift, as if he already knew the outcome.
Elyria, though she owed Tunde nothing, felt a rising bitterness. If Tunde died in that rift, she silently vowed that Thalas would pay dearly for it. Her promise hung in the air, cold and certain, as she kept her eyes on the rift’s entrance, which pulsed and shimmered with instability. It was shrinking rapidly, the last remnants of the rift dissolving into the ether.
She allowed herself a moment of acceptance. At least he would die quickly, she thought. It would be over in an instant, painless—far better than what awaited him had he survived. And yet, beneath her composed exterior, she wished, just once, that he had listened to her warning. That he had fled instead of foolishly challenging Thalas, a disciple leagues beyond him in power.
The rift pulsed again, warping unnaturally. Elyria’s eyes widened as she felt it—something was coming through. For a heartbeat, the world stood still, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade. And then, with a sudden burst of light, a figure tumbled through, crashing into the ground with a sickening thud.
Tunde.
His arm was shattered, his body bruised and bloodied, but he was alive. Barely.
The entire camp fell into stunned silence. No one moved. No one spoke. All eyes were fixed on the fractured form of Tunde, who lay on the ground, unconscious but breathing.
Elder Joran chuckled softly, breaking the silence. His laughter, light and full of amusement, echoed in the still air, a sound that sent a shiver down Elyria's spine.